Marc Jesmond - 2. Chapter 2 'The Letter'

Marc walked home, confused and dazed. There was an unreality about his present situation. Even the attractions of a seven figure inheritance could not compensate for the horrible revelation of his mother’s actions. She’d told him often enough that he was unworthy to inherit the business. And he’d assured her just as often that he didn’t want it. Now his mother had made sure the whole lot would be sold from under him.

Marc knew that hiding his sexuality from the family was an issue that refused to go away. He was born gay, and he knew his mother knew: did he really have to spell it out? After the death of his beloved father the Gabrielles’ only son had been expected to head up the ice cream empire. He hadn’t, and his mother never let him forget it. But Marc was appalled and upset that she could harbour such bitterness. It was utterly beyond him.

Marc slowed his pace; suddenly realising he was out of breath from walking so fast. The day that had started out bright had turned gloomy and the river looked like molten lead. He shivered in the cool breeze carried along by the water. As he neared home he paused at the café; he wanted to enter, to savour welcome and hospitality, but he didn’t have the courage. Instead he pretended to read the menu as he gazed at his reflection in the window. Whatever happened to the young man with the Italian good looks? His chestnut hair was all but gone and his face wore a pallor he couldn’t shake. Wearily, he trudged the final few yards home.

The duplex by the river had been Marc’s dream, but how much longer could he remain there? Losing his home and bolthole was going to be one of the hardest things to deal with. He felt oppressed and weighed down. Opening the door, he stood on a pile of mail lying there. Disinterestedly he flipped through the handful of garbage until he arrived at a letter that stood out from the rest. It was buff coloured, secured with sticking tape, and addressed to him in hand.

‘Dear Mr Jesmond,

We are currently part of a project that is screening men of your age group for prostate cancer. There is, of course, no need to worry at this stage but your risk might be heightened if you have a father or brother who has had the disease. In any event a simple blood test could put your mind at rest. Please contact your general practitioner Dr Kevin Mulalley for a check up or let us know if you do not wish to proceed’

Marc put down the letter, and walked to the window. Outdoors, the gulls screamed as they strafed the river’s surface, flashes of brilliant white against grey water, flowing through a grey world, under a grey sky.

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Glen Roberts stepped out of the shower, lightly towelling dry his hair, and paused in front of a full length mirror to admire the image. A thick, dark, mane of Celtic curls framed a sallow face that trod a fine line between interesting and venomous. His features were sharp and narrow and his eyes black as coal. In Glen’s own world, he could be an Irish bard, a famous folk singer, or an idolised guru. To anyone seeing him on the street he was just another young guy, slouching around in anti-fit jeans, looking like millions of others in Britain.

He threw the towel around his body and strutted to the bedroom where he slumped on the bed. Idly, he switched on the television and began to flick between the channels. Sighing with boredom, he switched it off. Looking down at his feet, studying them carefully, he crossed his legs, uncrossed them, then crossed them again; his face wore a malevolent smile,

‘Lee. Come here’

The boy wandered in, looking sheepish. Glen pointed,

‘Look at those feet. I mean, look at those fucking feet. Have you ever seen anything so perfect?’

Leon agreed he hadn’t. Glen resumed,

‘Fuck me! Just look at them. I mean, white, unmarked, toenails like coral, all that fuckin’ perfection, AND only a size eight’

He raised first one foot, then the other, as he gazed in rapture.

‘Not like those fuckin’ big plates of meat you got. What size are yours?’

‘I dunno, not sure’

‘You DON’T KNOW! You fucking Muppet! Come here, give me your trainer’

The boy took off the item and handed it to his tormentor who examined it with mirth,

‘Size twelve, fuckin’ell! Next time you’re buying shoes just come away with the shoe boxes and save some cash. Size fuckin’ twelve!’

Glen threw the trainer on the floor and rocked with laughter as Leon knelt over to put it back on. But the show wasn’t yet over.

‘Anyway, Lee, you know what they say, big feet, big cock. Come on, show us your dick, get that big ol’ fuckin’ man mamba out’

Leon coloured. Glen soothed,

‘Don’t be shy. I’m your best friend. Listen, I’ll come to the sauna with you if you do.’

Glen knew that, to the impressionable young man who adored him no other inducement would be so effective. Leon unfastened his button fly jeans and revealed himself. The elder male studied him for a few seconds, giving nothing away.

‘Not bad, not bad. You know, in the right hands.......’

Here he stopped; as a cat that stalks a bird looses interest, pauses, and grooms. Only Glen hadn’t lost interest, and he finished the sentence in his head,

‘......in the right hands, somebody could make money out of you’

Leon remained rooted to the spot. Glen grabbed his mobile and, focusing closely on the boy’s genitals took a photo. Leon looked awkward.

‘Why did you do that?’

Glen leapt up and hugged him, kissing him on the neck,

‘Because I lurrrrrrve you!’

He calmly detached himself and sat down, still eyeing the boy’s groin,

‘Well? Put the fuckin’ thing away. You can’t walk around here with your cock out all day’

Leon did as he was told, then asked,

‘So, are you coming with me?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘To the sauna?’

‘The sauna? Are you fuckin’ mad? To slop around in a jizz-filled Jacuzzi with all those sad old cunts, do me a fuckin’ favour!

Leon looked desolate, but Glen’s eyes were on fire,

‘Tell me. What do they do to you there? Touch you up, play footsy, do they? Try to get a feel of yer knob under the water? Not that you can see what they’re up to ‘cos they never change out the water. It’s like soup. So you spend the afternoon sitting around in all that old man spunk, just so somebody’ll buy you a drink later. Nice! You’ll never catch me in that shithole, NEVER!’

Leon bit his lip holding back the tears.

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The clerk at Haddaway & Crappe shuffled papers on his desk in a tired, old routine that had gone on for years. He knew that if his boss, Terence Haddaway should enter the office unexpectedly he’d likely find him surfing Gaydar. But his boss knew that too, so he always took care to make a noisy entry. Today, as it happened, the law firm’s clerk, Gerald Campfire had merely been on the shopping channel, ordering an Espresso machine when Haddaway entered with an armful of files,

‘Gerald, here are the Gabrielle files. There are a couple of properties still to sell. Could you run the checks, searches, Land Registry stuff et cetera, and when it’s all sorted, organise the sale particulars? We’ve got to get this up and running as soon as possible’

Gerald looked pained,

‘Market’s not so good right now, Sir, is it?

‘No, no, it’s not, in fact.....’

Haddaway leant close to his clerk, and lowered his voice,

‘I suspect we’ll have to go to auction with these. Terrible shame, but needs must’

Gerald feigned resignation and sighed, as his departing boss paused to add,

‘Oh, and one other thing; this is mega confidential. Not a word must get to the press or we lose our retainer’

‘Well the sale will be public’ Gerald observed,

‘Yes, yes, of course. But I mean about the whole Gabrielle will, and those strange provisions’

‘Oh I see. Well, yes, of course. My lips are sealed’

The clerk fixed doll-like eyes on his boss,

‘Will there be anything else?’

Haddaway inhaled deeply, and, shaking his head left the room. But his clerk sat for a considerable period of time mulling over what he’d just learned. Campfire was an assiduous ferreter of information and usually figured what was happening before anyone else did. Nothing he’d just been asked to do was any surprise to him; and he was fully aware of Marc Jesmond’s business, for he had been taking a keen interest in it for some time.

The petite clerk reclined in his chair and shut his beady, close-set eyes. Rocking back and forth, he considered how he’d go about selling the Gabrielle property, including the very house that Marco Gabrielle now lived in. The lawyer smiled bitterly at his faux pas using that name Marco Gabrielle, wasn’t it Marc Jesmond he was now calling himself?

In fact few men knew Marc as well as Gerald Campfire did; the two had attended school together, unwilling sharers in the commonality of growing up and discovering their mutual homosexuality. But that had created no bond. And the years would drive a further wedge between them; for while Marc enjoyed the privileged life of only child of wealthy parents Gerald Campfire found himself constantly having to work hard to achieve the slightest benefit. Moreover, while Campfire had used his university years to come out and parade his sexuality, Marco Gabrielle’s personal life remained knowledge to a select few. So it was with no little satisfaction that the clerk now reviewed the differing courses the men’s lives had taken, and how fortunes appeared to have reversed. And this was not the only respect in which he felt he had power over his former classmate.

For Gerald and his partner, the barrister Robin Parnaby, were the leading movers and shakers in a select gathering of gay men known as the ‘A Team’. Not to be confused with the renegade commando troupe of TV fame these ‘A Teamers’ were a rag bag assortment of pretentious Tyneside professional men who were different in just one regard. They sucked and fucked as gay men have since the dawn of history, but these characters thought they were better.

And nobody yearned more to join their ranks than Marc. Indeed, so desperately did he seek membership that he was even driven to change his name. A night out with one of the ‘Team’s’ members, and a casual, bitchy remark that Italian names lack kudos was all it took to unhinge Marco. The outcome was an official change by Deed Poll from Gabrielle to Jesmond, ensuring that a name that was good enough for the Archangel himself was traded in for a train stop on the Newcastle Metro.

Sadly, it didn’t work. When the news got out the members of the ‘A Team’ fell about. It had ensured but one thing; that Marc would never be part of a circle that comprised high court judges, surgeons, bankers and businessmen. And they did do things in style. Their behind-closed-doorssoirées were the stuff of legend. Champagne fuelled their golden showers, their salty mouthwashes really were oysters, and when they fucked on the table, it was candelabras that went flying. But Marc was destined never to know that.

Gerald smiled to himself. How many times had his old schoolmate come to him, grovelling for an invite into such illustrious company? And how good it always felt to be able to say,

‘Sorry Marco. I’ll see what I can do, but we’ve got all the members we can handle’

Gerald opened the folder left by his boss. He couldn’t wait to get started. What a lot he’d have to tell Robin when he got home.

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Alma Robson loved cemeteries. They couldn’t be equalled as places of solitude, and she was always guaranteed to be alone. For in this, the most secular and disrespectful age in history, few people visited any longer to show regard for the dead. Ah, the dead, how much less trouble than the living they are! Alma had come to visit her mother’s grave but she always took the opportunity to visit other graves of interest. A short traipse through the undergrowth took her to the site of a magnificent memorial. Alma paused, studied, and considered. The angel topped column eclipsed everything around it. Such a structure would cost a fortune these days, yet there was no-one alive who remembered this man; in fact, no-one who knew anyone, who’d known anyone, who ever knew him. He was now dust, nothing more, and the savage north eastern English weather had finished off the job, effacing even his name from the soft sandstone.

Musing on this, and other profundities, Alma picked her way back through the undergrowth to her mother’s plot. She gazed for a moment at the head stone and the name of Mary Robson, showing no more emotion for the memory of the dead woman than she’d shown for her mother when alive. But this trip had served a purpose. Alma always felt intellectually strengthened following her sojourn with the departed, and today’s visit had given her new resolution. As she strode down the pathway towards the exit she spoke aloud to whoever could listen,

‘Well I know this much. I’m having what’s mine. Nobody’s taking a blessed penny off me. I’ll fight with everything I’ve got’

Time was when old people sat by the fire and waited to die, or crept out to church and paid their dues by sticking another stamp on the Green Stamp Card of Eternity. Those days are gone. And Alma Robson, like millions of her peers, believers or not, had staked her claim to choke the life out of every coming day, and to Hell with philosophy, the planet and anyone who got in her way!

But there was one of the dead out there, hardly cold yet, who was about to show Alma Robson that it’s not just the living you have to fear.

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